The Enchanted Cottage
by FantomesFieryPhoenix
Summary: Poor and plain nurse Christine Daae is hired to tend injured war hero Erik D'Anton in recently liberated WWII France. A variation from traditional canon, this story is one of endurance, hope, and the ever-redeeming powers of love. ExC, Romance/Hurt/Comfort, AU: 1944, Paris, France. Limony 'M' warning just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

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The Enchanted Cottage

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Summary: Poor and plain nurse Christine Daae is hired to tend injured war hero Erik D'Anton in recently liberated WWII France. A variation from traditional canon, this story is one of endurance, hope, and the ever-redeeming powers of love.

ExC, Romance/Hurt/Comfort, AU: 1944, Paris, France. Limony 'M' warning just to be safe.

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Ch. 1— The Garden of Hope

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 _Paris, France_

 _October, 1944_

The little nurse was back again.

Erik listened intently from his position by the curtained window as she made her way carefully down the cobbled drive, her sensible heels click-clicking with every step.

He had been keeping up with her comings and goings for quite a while now. And from the information he had gathered, she had begun work at the sanatorium when her father was admitted as a means of paying for his care.

And she had chosen to stay on when he had died.

That had been over three months ago.

And Erik listened intently for her steps every night, waiting for her to arrive and begin her shift.

"Mr. D'Anton, Dr. Khan is here to see you."

With an absent gesture, Erik let the nurse on duty know he was ready. The door opened with a muted click as Nadir came in.

"Erik, it's good to see you."

"Khan, I wish I could say the same."

He heard the older man sigh. "It's still early days yet, Erik. Lie back, I want to check your pupils' response."

The older physician's gnarled hands pressed against his bandaged forehead, and then Khan was slowly unwrapping the gauze. He heard the click of a penlight being depressed and grew hopeful, Erik's eyes searching fruitlessly, sightlessly for the slightest trace of light.

His jaw clenched, he snarled, "Nothing has changed."

The pen light clicked once more as the physician's hands replaced the gauze. "It's only been two months since your surgery, Erik. Your eyes still need time to heal."

"And if this condition stays permanent?"

Once more sighing, the older man grasped his shoulder. "Then you shall adapt."

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She was coming.

Erik could hear her light footfalls as she stepped down the hall, delivering meals from room to room, giving a kind word here, a helping hand there. His was the last corridor, the very last room. And he had hoped she'd stay true to form and talk with him a moment while she tidied things up.

A tentative knock on the door, and it gave with a muted click. "Mr. D'Anton?" her sweet voice asked from the doorway. "Would you care for your dinner now?"

Turning from his seated position by the open window towards the sound of her voice, he said, "Good evening, Ms. Daae. You can place it in that corner there." He gestured to the small table and listened intently as the young woman did as bid, her steps economic and sure as she sat down the tray she held and began to tidy up his room.

Inhaling deeply as she moved about, Erik delighted in her scent: sunshine, springtime, lavender soap, and an alluring note all her own. She came nearer him, and he asked her, "And how are you doing today, Ms. Daae?"

There was a tone of self-reproach in her voice when she said, " _I_ should be asking _you_ that, sir."

Erik smiled roguishly. "Ah, but when you're here in my room, I can quite forget the realities of my situation entirely." He continued in a very conspiratorial whisper, "And every time you're here with me, Ms. Daae, I am _always_ doing well. Very well, indeed. So you never need ask again."

He heard her draw a surprised breath, and he smiled to himself.

But it was too much fun to tease and bait her so! Erik would stake his life she was blushing! Oh, he could just imagine her tell-tale blush. He said off-hand, "One of these days, Ms. Daae, you are going to have to describe for me what you look like."

She snapped the sheet she was folding vigorously and the noise resounded like a shot in the small space. He smirked to himself, knowing he had so discomfited the shy little nurse.

Their interaction was the highlight of his day, although she never once quipped back. It seemed curious to him that she did not know _how_ to respond to his flirting banter, and this gave him all the more encouragement to try and provoke a response.

It was her voice that called to him, made him want to engage her in conversation—keep her talking, made him want to make her smile—laugh that husky, amber-tinged laugh of hers that stirred such wicked, teasing thoughts in him when he could make her do so.

She was over by his bed now, almost finished with folding the linens into crisp, precise hospital-prescribed corners, and he heard a slight tremor in her lovely voice when she bravely stated, "They w-warned me about you, you know?"

Erik was intrigued. "Ah. Did they now? And do you always listen to what _they_ have to say?"

In retreat, she bustled over to the other side of his small room, and Erik heard her empty the rubbish bin. Would she answer him, he wondered? He heard her draw a quick intake of breath, and then she stated in a rush, "'Mean-tempered and brutish' were the words they used to describe you."

When he didn't respond, she tentatively walked back over to him, and reaching past his chair, closed the window and drew the blinds. Erik inhaled, glutting himself on her scent, her very nearness.

He said softly for her ears alone, "And do you, Ms. Daae, find me 'mean-tempered and brutish'?"

He heard her gulp.

She stated quietly, mystified, "N-no. You are not as they say."

"CHRISTINE!"

Hearing her gasp, the air around him stirred as she quickly turned around. "Come, child. You are needed in Four C. Mr. Phillips must be bathed again and his bed linens changed. Dinner did not agree with the poor man, not at all. Lord bless him."

"Yes, Nurse Tomlin," she replied meekly, and Erik heard her quick retreating footsteps meanwhile his jaw clenched.

"Well, and how are you doing this evening, Lieutenant?" the Head Nurse asked.

"Leave, you wretched cow, and take the damned tray with you!"

The head nurse cackled, her laughter shrill to his sensitive ears. And with a muted click, the door to his room was closed, and Erik was left alone with his thoughts once more.

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Christine's hands shook as she left Mr. D'Anton's room.

How did he do it? Every single time she went to tidy his room, she vowed she would be professional, courteous, and keep a respectful, impersonal distance. But each time, the dratted man caused her to stutter and blush, his comments inducing her heart to pound.

 _Not for the likes of her, he wasn't._ There were reminders enough in his room although he could not see them. His fiancée Carlotta Landress had plastered nearly every available surface with photographs of herself, and of the both of them as a couple posing together. Christine had gazed at their pictures often enough.

Mr. Erik D'Anton was a very handsome man.

At least, he had been before the German mortar shell had exploded near him and his contingent of men, killing many of them and peppering his face and body with shrapnel. He had been a Lieutenant in the French Army, and had been integral, so Christine had heard from the gossip of the other nurses, in the battle to liberate Paris: the very same battle in which he'd lost his sight and almost lost his life. A decorated war hero with a beautiful and very talented fiancé, the man was definitely not for the likes of her.

But a girl could dream, right?

And Mr. D'Anton's teasing quips and liquid voice featured nightly in her dreams.

But she did not delude herself. The only reason he said half the things he did to her was because he did not know what she looked like.

The man _was_ blind after all.

Throughout Christine's life, adjectives such as 'plain', 'gawky', and 'homely' had always been applied to her by well-meaning friends of her father. And Christine had always tried to take such comments in stride. After all, she had been quite the disappointment to him for she looked nothing like her mother.

The only trait of her mother's that Christine had inherited was her voice, and even in this, she was embarrassed, for she had once overheard her father say to one of his friends, "It's such a shame, Christophe, such a shame! That an angel's voice should be paired with such dowdy plumage."

She had stopped singing that very night and had yet to sing a note since.

Oh, not for her father's lack of trying.

Even on his deathbed, he had urged her to sing for him, but Christine found she couldn't. She didn't have the will or the strength or whatever it's called when one's very heart has been beaten and broken in two by the supposed love of one that is supposed to love unconditionally.

Still, she had cared for him to the best of her ability, devoting herself, her life to making his last few years as comfortable as possible considering the diagnosis he had been given. When she found she was no longer able to give him the quality of care he needed, she had gone to the Jardin D'espoir Sanitarium to make his last few months as comfortable and pain-free as could be.

And she had been working as a nurse's aide ever since.

"Hello Mr. Phillips, Nurse Tomlin said you needed another bath."

In answer, the dotty old man gave her a toothless grin and wriggled around where he sat. Christine pursed her lips, trying not to cringe. The tang of human waste was noticeably pungent. Holding her breath, she went behind the chair and began pushing him towards the bathing ward, and she tried to count her blessings, really she did.

After all, she had a prospect of steady employment and this was a good, _if not a good paying_ , job. And that was more than she could say for many in her situation.

 _And too, bath time with Mr. Phillips could have been so much worse!_ she thought as she began to wash the poor, dottering older gentleman clean. He could have 'painted' with his feces as a few of her other patients had done.

Yes, she needed to count her blessings.

Yes, indeed.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** For those of you following this story. Thank you for that! Thank you for your reviews! I had thought I would not be able to access this story from my other fanfic alias. However, thanks to some well-timed advice from a friend, I am now able to do so. 21 chapters are now available to read with more to follow by my other alias: **Phantom's Fiery Phoenix** with the same story name: **The Enchanted Cottage**.

I will be discontinuing posting the story here after this chapter. From now on, updates will be posted with the rest of the story at **Phantom's Fiery Phoenix**. I'd love to hear from you all, so do drop me a line, won't you?

Cheers!

 **PFP**

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Ch. 2— Angel of Mercy

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"Christine, we're short-handed today, dear. I'm going to need you to change Mr. D'Anton's bandages. Also be sure that man takes his medicine. He's been known to skip his doses if you don't watch him like a hawk. And Lord knows we don't want infection to set in. He has enough troubles as is. " Nurse Tomlin bustled away, already giving directions to an orderly, her tone shrill in harangue.

Christine placed the pile of carefully folded linens she had been holding back in her cart. Her hands started to shake. She couldn't touch him. Mr. D'Anton already made her nervous. If she got that close to him, then he would know, and he would just tease her more for it.

Desperately, she tried to think of anyone else available to do the task. Thayer? Faucher? Nurse Deniaud? She sought each of them out, dismayed when she found they were each and every one of them as busy as she. Nurse Tomlin had not exaggerated; they were woefully understaffed.

And this was all the more reason for her to quit shirking her responsibility and get it over with as quickly as possible.

Going to the cupboard, Christine gathered the necessary medicines and supplies, all the while telling herself she could do it: be professional, distant, and courteous… and aloof, dammit!

She needed to be aloof!

It wasn't as though she found the task ahead disagreeable.

On the contrary, her curiosity was piqued to see what he looked like now, scant months after his injury and the subsequent surgery. When he had arrived at the hospital, the damage to his face and body had been extensive. Dr. Khan had done the best he could with the limited medical supplies he'd had on hand.

But the day he had arrived was the day before the Nazis were defeated by the Allied forces and all of Paris freed; their medical supplies were severely limited. And he had come to them badly burned on over sixty percent of his body, parts of shrapnel still imbedded deep within his upper chest, thigh, and lower leg. The field surgeons had done what they could to staunch the bleeding and patch him up, but still, they had almost lost him in transit to the hospital.

Upon arrival, he had spent numerous hours in surgery, Dr. Khan trying to save his leg while Dr. Grieg worked on minimizing the damage inflicted from the burns and cuts, picking pieces of shrapnel from his skin.

All in all, Mr. D'Anton was very lucky to be alive.

And aside from the loss of his vision, Christine knew he would always walk with a limp—one of the many lasting reminders of his service to his country.

His face, however, had been wrapped in a heavy coating of bandages that needed to be washed, soaked in an antiseptic unguent, and changed every twelve hours to prevent him from developing infection. It was a very painful process. She knew, because she had heard the other nurses discussing it in detail, their voices filled with pity for the unfortunate man.

As she made her way to his room, Christine vowed she would not give him her pity. He deserved her devotion for his service to her country, and she would be devoted to making this as painless as possible for him.

So thinking, she resolved to do it, her fit of nerves, momentarily forgotten.

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Erik heard her coming to his room only a moment before she knocked. He was intrigued. Now, what could she be doing that would break the pattern the little nurse had so stringently set herself…? He heard the squeaking squeal of the cart and grit his jaw. Ah, a torture session then. And the hellcat Tomlin must have sent her sweetest angel to administer it.

No tentative knock this time. Not for Nurse Daae. This time, she gave a knock of determination. "Mr. D'Anton? May I come in, sir?"

"Et tu brute?" Erik said fatalistically as he heard the door open and the cart being pushed into his room.

He received the shock of his life when she rejoined him, "Animis opibusque parati."

He felt a smile tug his facial stitching despite himself. "And are you truly prepared, Torturess Daae?" he asked, knowing the phrase she uttered in Latin meant: ' _I come_ _heart and mind prepared for anything'_. "Does that include causing agony and unnecessary suffering to this hapless, helpless patient under your tender and merciful care?"

She slowly wheeled the cart beside him and said soberly, "I would hardly call what must be done 'unnecessary', sir. And yes Mr. D'Anton, I came prepared."

Erik gave a sardonic grin. So the kitten _did_ have claws after all.

He flinched as he felt her cool hand touch underneath his chin, gently urging his head to rise. "I'm sorry," he heard her say, "I should have told you I was going to do that. I'll try to be more mindful, sir." The spot she touched remained one of the few places on his face that was un-bandaged due to burn, scrape, or wound, and it was _very_ sensitive to touch.

"I'm going to begin unwrapping the gauze, alright?"

He nodded tersely, and he felt her delicate fingers at his throat, slowly beginning to unwind the tightly bound dressing. He should be used to this by now. It had happened twice a day for the last two months, but he was not.

It was an excruciating ordeal.

And even though Erik had endured his fair share of agony throughout this nightmarish experience, nothing seemed to lessen the pain each time it occurred.

In desperation, he tried to distract himself. "So, you are versed in Latin, Nurse Daae? You must tell me how a young woman such as yourself," he winced as he felt her gently start to peal the gauze away from a burn. He persevered, keeping his tone more jovial than he felt, " _How_ does a young woman such as yourself come by such knowledge?"

He heard the sound of water pouring into a basin, and then her gentle hands were once more on his now thinly-bandaged face, applying a damp sponge filled with water to loosen the gauze where it had adhered to his skin by blood or some other nauseous, sticky substance.

He flinched again as she began to tug, separating the linen layer from the flesh. At this point, he typically cursed the nurse attending him a blue streak, disparaging her profession, personality, looks, and birth.

He grit his jaw, biting back his words. He would not, could not do that to _her_. To do so would be to break one such as she, and so, trembling, Erik endured.

For her sake and his, he did so in silence.

Blessedly, just when he thought she was going to forgo his question entirely, she answered, "My father, sir, was a music professor at a small but prestigious university in Stockholm. I spent my formative years attending classes—they were free for the family of faculty—and so, that is how I learned to speak Latin."

"Music… Ms. Daae, your father was a musician?" Erik asked, intrigued.

There was a sad note in her voice, when she answered softly, "He tried to be."

Erik made some noise of assent. She was coming to the last bit of it, the bit that always burned like hellfire any time one of them touched it, and he couldn't help the grunting wince of pain.

Again, she apologized, "Oh, sir! I'm sorry! I'm trying to be careful, but it's just—"

Reaching up, Erik grasped her hands, "Don't apologize," he grit, "Just… hurry."

He felt her hands tremble. "Y—yes, sir."

He gave a terse nod and immediately released her, drawing a centering breath and forcing himself to relax and focus on _her_ , her thoughts, her words.

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"You said he 'tried to be'…what exactly does that mean, Ms. Daae?"

Christine gulped as she looked down at the ravaged remains of his face. God, but he was almost unrecognizable from the man he once was! Oh, how she wished she hadn't known what he looked like before. How she wished it!

It made the reality all the more terrifying.

In the months since his injury, the bruising and swelling had gone down considerably, and the torn and burned skin had begun to heal. But the scar tissue resulting from his burns were developing keloids: she knew this was the term because Dr. Grieg had used it to describe what would sometimes occur to the skin of a patient suffering from a cut or burn.

Thick, shiny, and purple-tinged, the 'mutant' scars were developing along both sides of his face, from his hairline down to his neck in an obscene patchwork that curved to encompass parts of his cheek and chin as well. The nerves in the muscles near his right upper lip had been severed, and so now he could no longer move that part of his face, and it sagged.

She was glad she kept his eyes covered for she didn't think she could bare it if he stared sightlessly up at her from such a face. God! She didn't think she could. And despite her vow, Christine looked down at the now unfortunate looking man in pity.

It was cruel; a cruel and vicious twist of fate to lay such a man as he this low.

"I am waiting, _Torturess Daae_." His tone, and his expression, although still tight with tension and pain, were teasing of her. He grinned a lopsided smile that tugged at the corner of one of his stitches, and Christine felt her heart skip a beat.

Blinking, she shook her head.

What was it he had asked her? _Oh, yes. Her father._

She picked up the mild soap and began to work lather into the water-laden sponge. "I did say he _tried_ to be a musician, but…" she bit her lip, and gently began to rub the sponge over his face. She drew a breath and confided, "You know the expression, 'those who can't do, teach?'"

He made a humming noise that Christine was beginning to associate with him agreeing with her to continue. She sighed, "Well, that was my father. He had a gifted ear for critique but not for creation."

"Ah." He cocked his head to the side, intrigued. "And does his daughter share his _ability_ for critique?"

Christine surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply when she answered, "His daughter does not share his love for music in the slightest."

Again, he reached up to clasp her hands. " _That_ is a true shame, my dear."

She gulped, feeling the need to justify her answer, justify herself, but he instantly released her hands, with a gentle reprimand, "Now, mademoiselle, the soap does sting. Please hurry as fast as you're able."

Christine swallowed back the emotion she felt and quickly did as bid; somehow getting the impression that he—this man that sat so bared and broken before her— _pitied_ _her_.

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